Rayan was running.
The ground beneath his feet was wet, heavy, pulling at his legs as if the world itself wanted to drag him down. His breath burned in his chest. Every step felt slower than the last.
And in front of him—
Her.
His mother stood at the end of a long, narrow hallway.
She was thin. Too thin. Her skin pale, almost translucent, her dark hair hanging lifeless over her shoulders. Her eyes—once warm, once filled with quiet strength—were empty now.
Not angry.
Not sad.
Just… gone.
"Mom!"
He reached out, stumbling forward.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came.
The hallway began to rot.
Cracks spread through the walls like veins of sickness. The air grew thick, choking. Rayan tried to run, but his legs refused to move. His body felt small again. Helpless. Like when he had stood beside her bed, night after night, watching the sickness eat her away.
The smell of medicine.
The quiet breathing.
The way she still smiled at him even when it hurt to stay alive.
Her body started to break apart.
Not into blood.
Not into flesh.
Into dust.
"No—!"
He tried to scream. Tried to reach her.
But she was already disappearing.
Her empty eyes were the last thing he saw.
Rayan woke with a sharp breath.
For a moment, the world didn't make sense.
The cracked wooden ceiling. The faint orange light of early morning slipping through the window. The quiet creaking of the house.
He was home.
His heart was still racing.
Then he felt it.
Warmth.
Pressure against his side.
He slowly turned his head.
His sister was asleep beside him.
She was older than him.
His big sister.
And yet… she clung to him like a child.
She was curled tightly against his chest, one arm wrapped around his shirt, her face pressed into his shoulder. Even in sleep, her fingers were gripping the fabric like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go.
Since their mother's death, she had become like this.
Needing closeness.
Needing to touch him just to be sure he was real.
Sometimes holding his hand when they walked. Sometimes hooking her arm into his. And most nights… slipping into his bed without a word.
Not because of the dark.
Because of loss.
Because she was terrified of waking up one day and finding that he was gone too.
Even though she was the older one.
Even though she was supposed to be the strong sister.
Rayan didn't move.
The dream still clung to him—the empty eyes, the dust, the helplessness.
He carefully placed his hand over her arm.
"I'm here," he whispered.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Her grip loosened just a little.
Their house was small.
Too small for a family of four.
It stood at the edge of a quiet village in Zah'Rakh, not far from one of the great trade roads cutting through the endless desert lands. Caravans passed every few days—merchants, travelers, sometimes heroes heading toward distant cities.
But the village itself was peaceful.
Simple.
Warm.
Rayan's father was already awake when he stepped into the main room. Tall, broad-shouldered, with tired eyes that had seen too much. A guardian by trade—respected in the region, though far from wealthy.
"Morning," his father said.
"Morning."
The smell of bread and herbs filled the room.
His oldest sister sat at the table, posture relaxed, eyes sharp. Beautiful, but in a way that felt more like strength than softness. Direct. Honest. To Rayan, she felt more like a brother than a sister.
"She slept with you again?" she asked.
Rayan hesitated. "…Yeah."
She exhaled quietly. Not annoyed. Just worried. "Thought so."
They didn't speak of their mother.
They didn't need to.
Later that morning, Rayan stepped outside.
The village was already alive. Merchants setting up small stalls. Children running between houses. Dust rising from the road as a caravan moved past in the distance.
And then—
"Rayan."
He froze.
He knew that voice.
He turned.
She stood near the well, sunlight catching in her hair.
His best friend.
The girl who was always too close. Who leaned in when she spoke. Who smiled like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
She took a step toward him. Then another. Stopping just a little too near.
"You forgot again, didn't you?" she asked softly.
Rayan felt heat rush to his face. "…Forgot what?"
She tilted her head, amused. "You promised to help me today."
"I didn't forget."
She laughed—not teasing, not loud. Just warm.
She stepped even closer. So close he could smell the faint spices on her clothes. "You always say that.
His face burned.
Of course she noticed.
From the porch, his sisters watched.
The older one smirked.
His other sister—still half-asleep, still clinging to him emotionally—hurried over the moment she saw him and hooked her arm into his.
As if to say: he's mine.
Not in a jealous way.
In a frightened one.
For a moment, everything felt… normal.
Rayan had known her almost his entire life.
Their houses stood only a few steps apart.
Their mothers had been close friends.
When they were small, the two women used to sit together in the evenings, talking quietly while their children played in the dust. Rayan barely remembered a time when she wasn't there—running beside him, laughing with him, holding his hand when he tripped.
When his mother grew ill, her mother was always there.
When his mother died, she was there too.
Since then, they had grown up together.
Best friends.
Almost inseparable.
And somehow… something more.
Something Rayan didn't yet know how to name.
Rayan Moren was eleven years old.
He had no magic.
No special power.
No destiny anyone spoke of.
Only a past that refused to let him rest.
A family he was terrified of losing.
A sister who was older than him, yet clung to him like a child.
And a girl who had been beside him since childhood, now standing just a little too close.
But as he stood there—with his sister holding onto his arm, his best friend smiling softly, and the memory of his mother burning in his chest—
One thought echoed in his mind.
I will never let anyone I love disappear again.
Not like her.
Not ever.